


The Plastic King of Castle Polyethylene

by jettiebettie



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Dark Rhys, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Robot Sex, Strangulation, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jettiebettie/pseuds/jettiebettie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[He stares] with sunken eyes at the slow pulsating glow of the iris. It’s grown dimmer, the remaining stored energy finally beginning to run out after days (weeks?) of being in Rhys’s pocket. It probably has a few days left on its own like this, five at most. It’s hard not to think of the man (AI, artificial intelligence, malicious code, not a man, not a man, get a hold of yourself) who begged for his life. </p><p>On his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plastic King of Castle Polyethylene

**Author's Note:**

> This is terrible. I have broken my vow to never use song lyrics as titles. I've reached new depths of depravity. 
> 
> Oh, and there's robot fucking.

So he may have been taken by a fit of madness after having finished his cybernetics.

Not his fault, entirely, because there was only so much coffee left in the Atlas facility and once the caffeine had dried up, something else had to pick up the slack of his failing body. 

Reading Jack’s rants about various glowing mushrooms and nasal frostbite had kinda paid off. The  _boletus fabaceae_? One hell of a cold nose later and his entire  _being_  was buzzing, having him run between projects at what felt like light speed, skin tight and blood vacillating from boiling hot to icy cold and back on a whim, keeping him on his toes. Suddenly he wasn’t lacking in sound to distract from his own thoughts, because a symphony of razor sharp sawing, plasma torches, and the screaming melodies of metal being molded by his hand filled his entire skull, blissfully leaving room for nothing else. 

One hit and he’d finished his new port insert and arm, the outward design standard but the inside a crazy mess of brilliance and wires that didn’t make sense at first glance. He would have paid it more loving appraisal had he not needed to puke his guts out. 

One more hit and he shoved the pieces into himself, body numb to anything but the electricity in his veins and running along his skin, weirdly red instead of blue, coiling and dripping from the tips of  _shiny_   _shiny_   _shiny_  chrome fingers which bend and wiggle at his giddy command. 

He remembers being sore afterwards, in mind and body. Remembers staring from where he’d collapsed up at the ceiling reflecting the blue and purple glow from the windows overlooking the jungle outside and thinking that his old eye was a much prettier shade. 

That was probably the moment that led him here, Rhys thinks, staring with sunken eyes at the slow pulsating glow of the iris. It’s grown dimmer, the remaining stored energy finally beginning to run out after days (weeks?) of being in Rhys’s pocket. It probably has a few days left on its own like this, five at most. It’s hard not to think of the man (AI, artificial intelligence, malicious code, not a man, not a man,  _get a hold of yourself_ ) who begged for his life. 

On his knees. 

Rhys’s weary mind freezes on that image and he feels his own knees go weak and his heart speed up, just a little. What was once a sad and guilt ridden memory is easily warped into something not unlike a fantasy. And like that, like the snap of frayed rope worn away by unseen forces, something inside Rhys breaks open. 

 _Fuck_ , he’s horny. Fuck fuck fuck, when was the last time he’d had relief of any kind? The night before his supposed promotion from Henderson? Christ, how long ago was that? Forever. It was forever ago and now that the phantom itch of lost limbs has been corrected, an itch of a very different kind is making itself known, spreading through his nerves and settling in the pit of his stomach. 

His gaze slides to his left, looking with lidded eyes at the pile of crushed mushroom that remains from earlier. Maybe he should eat something first? Should at least sleep a bit, maybe take some of the edge off with a little self-service. His body can only run this hot for so long, right? Right. 

But one look back at the weakening glow of the implant and Rhys says  _fuck it_. He can sleep when he’s dead. He also really, really needs to find a way around the nasal frostbite because  _shit_ , man. 

It takes him three days. Three days, a ridiculous amount of drafting, welding, cross wiring, movement testing, and passing out four or five times in between, but he does it. He really fucking does it. 

A sleek metal body stands upright before him, Atlas chrome shining brilliantly in contrast to the occasional bundle of wires acting as the contraction and extension muscles. The head is smooth and mouthless, with two eye sockets, one with a standard camera and the other awaiting what is sitting next to Rhys’s hand on the table he’s resting against. Taking a deep and steadying breath, Rhys begins to install the implant with tired hands. 

It’ll take a while for the startup sequence to do its thing. Rhys makes the most of the time, kicking off his shoes and moving his hands to undo his pants. He’s still riding that high, on the tail end of it, but it keeps him going, keeps his body numb to anything but what feels good. And he knows this is going to feel good. 

Rhys watches as the blue ECHOeye blinks rapidly in its startup, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding his pants down, kicking them away. There’s lubricant from a mostly intact medkit several rooms away and Rhys puts it to use, lifting a leg onto the table and pushing wet fingers past his underwear. The anticipation has him on edge more so than the aching pull at his rim. This will be something nice to finish off a hellish week of blood, sleep deprivation, and drug induced productivity. Rhys bites his lips as he works himself open, movement becoming hasty as he counts down the seconds he has left alone. 

He pulls his fingers out when blinking of the iris suddenly stops and begins to grow brighter, watching fascinated as the mechanisms of the metal body start to shutter and move. Robotic eyes turn downward to examine sectioned fingers and half-cased arms. In confused motions, hands come up to the face, feeling around almost desperately for something. Rhys can’t help but smile a little. 

“Nuh uh,” he says, his voice harsh from disuse. “No more talking for you." 

Jack’s new hands are around his throat in the blink of an eye. 

Rhys falls back onto the table and the metal body moves with him, pinning him down and increasing that delicious pressure against his windpipe, cutting off his oxygen and making him smile again. Just look at that fluidity of motion, he think pridefully as his vision begins to turn black around the edges. His heart is racing, pounding against his skull and filling his erection with an unbearable heat. But just as he felt himself begin to slip, before Jack actually had the chance to snap his neck, Rhys’s ECHOeye kicks in, activating the failsafe. 

There’s a sharp hissing sound and then the pressure at his throat all but disappears, robotic fingers becoming lifeless and useless. The body stumbles back, looking at the hands with what Rhys can only assume is betrayal, even as he coughs and sucks in air greedily. As his vision swims back into place, he moves a hand down to press against the hardness in his underwear. Jack head moves, maybe to follow the sudden motion. The head cocks to the side slightly and Rhys laughs as he coughs again. 

"I gave you a shiny new toy and all you wanna do is stick to the classics." 

It’s surprising how long it’s taken Jack to realize what he’s packing below the waist, and Rhys is actually kind of offended; the hours of loving detail he put into it is obviously not being appreciated. 

Jack’s new body jerks this way and that, as if Jack is having himself something of a freak out. Rhys pouts, already imagining the kinds of things Jack would say right now, if he could. 

If Rhys cared to hear anything more from him. 

"You gonna just stare at it all day or…?” he asks, thumbs hooking into the band of his underwear and eye restoring Jack’s control to his hands. Jack’s movement are, again, lightning quick as a metal fist slams itself just to the side of his face, leaving a dent in the table. It startles Rhys, but no more than when those hands grab and flip him, one holding him down harshly in the center of his back and then other tearing away his underwear. 

The blunt press of seamless steel against his still-wet hole makes him whimper and squirm. His teeth catch his lip again when the stretch borders on too much, but Jack is relentless, thrusts only staying shallow for as long as it takes to breach the overheated body beneath him. Too strong fingers bite into the flesh of Rhys’s ass, holding him open until Jack’s new cock is fully sheathed, then moving to grip sharply at his hip. 

The first,  _real_  thrust punches out what little breath Rhys has in his lungs. His toes grip the floor, trying to regain some leverage as he lifts himself onto his elbows only to have his head pushed back down and held painfully to the table. 

By some miracle he finds air enough to laugh on the next stinging slap of cold metallic hips against his ass. The table shakes as Jack pounds into him, the hydrolic hissing of mechanisms doing nothing to drown out the cries being pulled from Rhys’s mouth or the wet, obscene sounds between them. The chilled metal starts to leech warmth from his skin and something about the idea of that transfer causes Rhys to moan. 

Seemingly agitated by this, Jack pulls harder at Rhys’s hair, causing his back to bow slightly, while at the same time increasing the pace of his thrusts. Bruises are already starting to form where bright blotches of reddened skin spread out across Rhys’s body. The added ache of them has Rhys’s eyes rolling back, saliva escaping the side of his mouth as Jack, probably unknowingly, assaults his prostate. Wrapping a hand around his cock and squeezing in time with Jack’s movements Rhys can only cling to the surface below him with his other hand as he comes, shuttering around the shaft of unyielding metal inside him. 

Jack’s movements stutter and slow, as if surprised at Rhys’s climax. His hand lets go of Rhys’s hair, and Rhys lets it fall heavily forward, clucking against the table loudly. A laughing fit shakes his body as his orgasm begins to taper off, the breaths fogging the still cool surface beneath him. 

“Too bad you can’t feel anything,” he slurs, tired eyes straining to the side to look at the expressionless face behind him. He moves his hips in a slow circle as if to cruelly emphasis his point. “Because that was pretty awesome." 

He half expects those angry, now skin-warmed hands when they force him further up onto the table, taking his leverage away as Jack thrusts into him violently. The ache of it is more real this time, Rhys’s insides already feeling used and bruised, his ass beat to hell. He scrambles for the lubricant but doesn’t get nearly enough smeared on the rod during the recoil before Jack is grabbing both of his arms and pinning them behind his back and thrusting back in. 

And yet, despite the dull pain his overloaded senses are finally registering, it’s exactly what he needs, scratching that unbearable itch that’s been driving him up these cold and lonely walls for days. The lack of anything to hold on to, of anything to press back against, means he’s helpless to the sensations Jack is beating into him. The creaking of the bones in his wrist, sounds metal on metal and metal on flesh, the added stretch to his rim from the metal inside him expanding to the heat of his body. All of it threatens to overwhelm him, even more so than the fact that he can barely draw in a sigh of a breath before it wrenched out of him by Jack’s hostile movements. 

That Jack is trying his damnedest to fuck him to death is weirdly endearing to Rhys. 

He feels his body shake in orgasm again, but Jack doesn’t stop this time, not really, just flips Rhys back around before forcing his legs wide and trapping his hands above his head. Facing Jack like this, watching the dangerous flicker of blue in that iris, Rhys swears he can hear glitched obscenities and threats, insults and ranting all tailored to cut him in the deepest ways possible. How he can hear anything beyond his own screaming or the banging of the table’s edge as it finally hits the wall is a mystery to him, imaginary or not. 

His body squirms trying to get away, anything to stop the onslaught of too sharp electric impulses along his spine, but he actively fights it, wanting more,  _needing_  more, his body be damned. When he tries to wrap his legs around the thin frame of the metal body, Jack catches one of them in a painful grasp, shoving it up farther than Rhys is sure he should be able to bend. That blue glow bores into him, murderous rage propelling Jack’s movements and driving Rhys crazy. 

His toes curl in the air, teeth gritted together and eyes squeezing shut. There are lights flashing behind his lids, a kaleidoscope of color and motion that makes him dizzy, makes him feel like he’s falling far and fast.

He passes out when he comes again with nothing left to give. Must have only been for a few seconds, a minute at most, because he wakes to Jack still ramming into him, fingers holding his thigh so tightly that blood has begun to run down the inside. In a blurry haze, Rhys’s ECHOeye kicks to life, the dialogue box for  _ **Force Shutdown: Y/N?**_  displayed in his vision. 

_**Y** _

The malice that seemed to emit from the metal body dissipates almost immediately, fading with the blue of the iris as it is forced into standby and the entire frame goes rigidly still. 

He probably could have timed that better because his hands are still pinned and the rod is still buried inside of him. Taking in a shaky breath, Rhys clenches onto the metal one last time before he tries to wiggle himself back. He body screams in protest, aches and pains making themselves known as Rhys’s post-mushroom, post-coitus high begins to wear off. The rod slips out of him messily and Rhys lets himself fall back onto the table, fingers curling against the ones holding his arms in place. 

A satisfied smile spreads across his face as he thinks of the best way to wipe the last hour or so from Jack’s memory. Be nice, he thinks as he stretches out his sore muscles. It’d be  _really_  nice to keep Jack that wound up. 

 "’Til next time, kiddo.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been on my tumblr forever, and it was about time I uploaded it here, hur.
> 
> (Did you know you can find me on tumblr at jettiebettie.tumblr.com? It's true.)


End file.
